“That’s reasonable,” was Steve’s reply. “You’ll see yer pay O. K. soon ’s I locate, an’ I’m bound to when—”
“Cut it out!” Mrs. Hallard was already pushing change across the counter to another customer. “It’s chalked up, Steve.”
“Kate! oh, Kate!” The voice of an old habitué came across the bedlam of sound: “Tell one o’ them pigtailed lumps o’ sin,” it went on, “to fetch me another pony o’ that white pizen o’ your’n, quicker!”
“Gong,” the presiding genius of the place said calmly to one of the China boys, “Go tell Tombstone he don’t need no more gin. Tell ’im I said so.”
Gong carried the message, delivering it over his shoulder as he set another customer’s order of “ham and” before him. Tombstone’s face, when he received it, was worthy of his name.
“Hell!” he ejaculated to anyone who might listen, “That’s what comes o’ hashin’ off ’n a woman.”
He was still muttering gloomily when he went up to the desk to pay his score.
“Kate,” he said with drunken gravity, as he swayed before her, “The love o’ tyranny’s a bad thing in a man. It’s plumb perilous fer a female.”
Mrs. Hallard glanced from his money to him.
“What’s eatin’ you, Tombstone?” she demanded, ringing up the cash-register.